The Sheikh's Forbidden Jewel

Part 16-Chapter 15

Georgina stretched on her camp bed and counted the stars she could see through the open flap of her tent. She was beginning to recognise the constellations, and even knew some of their names in Arabic, thanks to Mohammed, her guide-cum-bodyguard. She could see his dark, reassuring shape a dozen feet away, silhouetted against the dying fire. She smiled to herself. When she'd told Fatima about her plan, she'd expected the older woman to pooh-pooh it, and tell her to stop being so silly – just as her father, mother and brother would have done. Instead, Fatima had set about making it a reality. She'd arranged her accommodation, transport, and found Mohammed for her. The tough, wiry former shepherd may have been middle-aged, but he looked as though he could slaughter a lion with his bare hands, if any lions had existed in the area and had been foolish enough to approach "Madame George" as Mohammed called his client. Although his English was good, he spoke little, which suited Georgina just fine. Up here in the hills, kept safe by his quiet presence, she could let the wilderness and the silence seep into her soul. They wouldn't heal the ragged wound that Idriss's absence had opened, but in time, they might bring her peace.

She rooted under her bed for her notebook, flicked through it at the light of her pocket torch. She'd nearly filled it already. Every page an idea for an event. A music festival, which would showcase the talent of the local musicians. A cookery course in a traditional farm. Fatima had promised to supply recipes. A storytelling and poetry recital. All a far cry from the parties she used to organise, but the right sort of event for this rugged, beautiful country. They would bring much needed jobs and money to the villages, and put them on the map, without destroying their way of life. She made a few more notes. If she focused hard enough on work, she could sometimes go a full half hour without thinking about Idriss. And she was doing something useful, something to help the warm, hospitable people who had welcomed her and her broken heart. What had started as a whim, a brief holiday before returning to reality, was turning into a proper job. A mission. These hills were full of hidden treasures. Ruins, hidden caves...

Her pen slipped on the page, nearly tearing a hole through it. No. She'd have nothing to do with caves or remnants of ancient civilisations. That was Idriss's territory, and there'd be too much risk of bumping into him, or worse, finding herself at the receiving end of another "business proposal". And she wasn't sure she'd have the strength to say no a second time.

Damn. She closed the notebook and lied back on her bed, blinking hard at the stars overhead. In her moments of weakness, she wondered if she should have said yes to Idriss' offer. Because then she would at least see him, hear his voice...

She groaned to herself and kicked back the covers. Yes, see him, hear him, and forever live in the hope that their relationship could develop into something more than cooperation or friendship. Or sex. Forever expect the impossible – no one could live like that.

But if you're so wise, muttered a little voice inside her head, why don't you go back to London, and put a few thousand miles between you and this man? Why are you hanging around in his country, among his people?

Georgina tore herself from the bed and stalked out. She wouldn't mope in her tent, brooding over a love that could never be. She'd walk to the fire, sit down next to Mohammed, listen to the wordless melodies he hummed to himself, or ask him to teach her some Arabic, until she felt ready to drop off.

"What's the word for sadness?" she asked, as she got closer to the dark figure.

"Huzun," said a voice that sent a tremor through her entire body. "But I know a much better word. Amal."

Two eyes pierced her with a light far brighter than the fire's.

"It means hope."

Georgina stood very still, afraid to move or breathe. If she did, surely the apparition would vanish, and she'd wake up.